


Ruminants and Rain Lilies

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Familiars, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-02 01:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12716895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir and his familiar are unfortunately displaced, but Lord Elrond and his familiar have another option.





	1. Cornflower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressOfLions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfLions/gifts).



> A/N: This is a gift for the-puppets-mistress, who donated to charity for my [karma commissions drive](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions) and requested “Elrondir for both or the one. And i would love for there to smut in the story, like really love it. And them having animal familiars that have been trying to get them together for years”. I just broke this scene up into three parts because I’m low on time but still wanted to start. OTL Rating is for future chapters.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Lindir no longer knocks when he slips inside the office of his lord, but he does wait patiently to be addressed. He stands just before the doorway, his faithful pudu standing gracefully beside him. The reports clutched in Lindir’s hands are hardly pressing, so he holds his tongue, while his beloved lord’s concentration remains on his own letter.

Seated before his desk and bent over rich parchment, Lord Elrond is hard at work. Lindir rarely sees him in any other state, especially when there are no guests to visit and nothing to look after but Imladris’ own. The wise markhor that always follows Elrond about rests in the corner, seated below the warm light of the window. He looks up at Lindir, and Lindir politely averts his gaze; Elrond’s familiar is for him alone. Lindir’s gently nudges his leg, though he ignores it. Then he’s nuzzled more forcefully, and Lindir steps aside. He can feel his cheeks heating—it’s distressing, how strangely _pushy_ his familiar has become of late. 

The markhor rises at this. He’s on old creature, as old as his master, and his many-coloured coat is long, the beard beneath his muzzle nearly trailing to the floor. Complimentary hues of silver and gold shimmer as he steps out of the shadow of the window, plodding to Elrond’s side instead. He nudges his forehead against Elrond’s side, the enormous, twisting horns he bears brushing along Elrond’s shoulder. Elrond glances down at him, then follows the familiar’s gaze, and spies Lindir.

A smile flitters across his handsome face, and he offers, “Lindir. Please, come in.”

Lindir does, head bowing, gratitude bubbling in his chest for his lord’s majestic partner. He strides towards the heavy oak desk, his light-footed pudu padding softly behind him. Two thin chairs sit before the desk, one to either side, and Lindir pulls the nearest closer and descends into it. He extends his report forward as he does so, laying it atop Elrond’s desk. 

“Erestor’s plans for the eastern wing remodel have successfully gone through,” Lindir announces. Elrond, as one who always sits in on the councils, will know exactly which plans Lindir speaks of—very few details have been changed in the more minute checks it’s since circulated through. “The masons are ready, and the residents have all been temporary relocated.” He pauses, and his pudu unsubtly stomps one hoof. Lindir coughs a second too late to hide it, blushing darker and continuing, as bidden, “However, it, ah... it was a tight squeeze, my lord. The western and northern wings are now quite full, and the southern wing holds no suitable accommodations. There was one more candidate than there were available rooms. Naturally, I chose myself to be displaced.”

Elrond frowns. It always pains Lindir to cause that, but as his lord’s diligent attendant, there are always times where he must deliver ill news. After a quiet moment, Elrond suggests, “Perhaps Lord Glorfindel would be the better choice. He resides in the eastern wing, I believe, and surely he could simply attend patrol early.”

Lindir could _never_ allow himself precedence over a lord of any kind. But he has another reason for rejecting the proposal. “Erestor specially requested Lord Glorfindel’s aid in the remodel, and besides, lords Elladan and Elrohir have already offered him their quarters while they are away with Estel.”

“But those chambers are quite vast,” Elrond notes. “Surely there is room for you...”

“I am afraid Lord Ethenion is already stationed there with Lord Glorfindel.” Elrond’s frown only deepens, so Lindir insists, “It is no trouble, my lord. I will sleep in the study, if I may have your leave. I only burden you with such idle problems on the off chance it should interfere with my job performance. But of course, I will do my best to see that that does not happen.”

Elrond still looks bothered, but he says nothing to either accept or decline Lindir’s request to sleep in the study. It’ll still be rather inappropriate, but there aren’t many options left. Then the markhor bays, and Elrond glances towards him, seeming to share his thoughts. When Elrond looks back to Lindir, he announces, “You will stay in my chambers.”

A gasp leaves Lindir’s throat before he can snatch it back. He doesn’t regain himself quickly enough, just splutters, “My lord, that is not necessary—”

Elrond lifts a hand, effectively cutting him off. “I have more than enough space, and I have a comfortable enough couch that I will sleep on, while you may take my bed. With any luck, the remodeling effort will not take more than a fortnight.”

“B-but that is not right—I could not possibly—” His pudu bits his sleeve, distracting him enough to cut off his protests. 

Glancing at that pudu, Elrond murmurs, “It may be right, and well matched. The forms our familiars have chosen are similar, and so my rooms will hopefully be suitably accommodating for yours.” Straightening and returning focus to Lindir, Elrond gently adds, “Besides, my ultimate duty in Imladris has long been to see to my guests. While your own quarters are under construction, you are my guest. Please, allow me to extend you this small courtesy.”

It’s nothing small. It makes Lindir tremble just to think about, but he tries not to go down that road. If he thinks too much about lying in his lord’s bed, he’ll get nothing else done for the rest of the day. He doesn’t know if he’s more delighted or horrified by that prospect. Delighted, because it’s the very thing he’s always longed for, and horrified, because experiencing that small taste of paradise for only a short while, only to have it taken away and never returned once the eastern wing is finished, may well be his doom. 

He hopes he won’t embarrass himself too terribly. Flustered, he opens his mouth to attempt one more refusal, but his pudu nudges his leg none too gently, and Lindir sucks in his breath and quiets. The Valar blessed him with a spiritual manifestation for a reason, and he never likes to openly defy that. 

Instead, he bows his head in gratitude and returns sincerely, “Thank you, my lord. Thank you very much.”

When he lifts his head again, Elrond is smiling softly at him. It makes Lindir’s heart race twice as fast. He forces himself to rise from the chair—he feels the need to leave before he makes a fool of himself. Likely sensing the self-dismissal, Elrond bids, “I will see you tonight then, Lindir.”

Lindir murmurs, “Tonight,” and swiftly turns. His steps are shaky and stiff, far too eager.

Once he’s left his lord’s office and shut the tall doors behind himself, safely back in the outside corridor, his pudu chuckles warmly at him, “Do not fuss so—you did rather well.”


	2. Giraffe

He’d meant to sleep on the sofa that sits out on the balcony—that would be the _proper_ course of action, though it’s hardly proper for a lord to sleep outdoors. It would still be more so than the one that rests in his main chambers, not all that far from the bed, within a clear line of sight. The idea is to _avoid_ temptation, and from this couch, he’ll still see Lindir’s slender form, likely hear every subtle breath that leaves Lindir’s lips. But there’s nothing to be done about that now. The arrangements are made, and Elrond prepares for it. He collects a set of spare sheets from the cupboard in the washroom, and as he paces back towards his new perch, his markhor wistfully remarks, “There is no need to do that, you know.”

“I am to sleep with no sheets?” Elrond counters, not bothering to look back. He waves the folded sheets out across the three cushions that will become his makeshift mattress. His markhor makes a snorting noise that sounds, through his long muzzle, more like a sneeze.

“You have a spry young servant who will happily do all that for you, though it would be wiser still to simply use your own bed, which already has sheets upon it.”

Elrond tries not to show how tense the mere suggestion makes him. Centuries of practice mask his reaction, though he knows he can’t fool his own animal. The markhor will know, as the markhor always does, and still Elrond quietly returns, “That would not be appropriate, and you know it.”

“I share your sense of propriety, of course,” the markhor purports, though Elrond hears the ‘but’ before it comes. “But I also understand the notion of _privacy_ , and here, in the privacy of your own quarters, surely you are as much entitled to love as any elf behind closed doors.”

Elrond really does stiffen at that. The word ‘love’ is so out of the blue that he doesn’t know where to begin. He finally glances over his shoulder, eyeing the majestic beast that rests beside his desk, calmly sitting on the floor with folded legs and enormous horns, looking for all the world like one of Manwë’s emissaries, come with all the knowledge of the world. It would be so easy if it were that. But Elrond knows the markhor knows no more than himself, and in this, at least, Elrond knows everything he has to. 

He says dismissively, “That is ridiculous,” and bends to smooth the wrinkles out of the sheets.

“Is it?” the markhor prods, like one of Elrond’s children refusing to listen, though far more condescending—more like Elrond’s fathers: the great Maglor gently forcing him to question everything. “Am I so wrong? Do you not long for your lovely assistant, so sweet and loyal to you in all things? Do you truly think you can fool your inner self?”

Elrond ignores that entirely, insisting, “He is too young and sweet to spoil with an old man.”

He still expects a counter, though his word is final. But the markhor only huffs, “Perhaps you are right.” 

For a moment, Elrond believes he’s actually in the clear. He continues his work, leaving to fetch extra pillows from the sofa on the balcony, but as he returns, the markhor sighs, “Yet that does not stop me wanting to nuzzle into that adorable deer’s soft fur.”

Elrond shoots his familiar a withering look, but the markhor’s gaze is conveniently elsewhere. It makes him wonder whether or not this rooming trouble is truly real, or if their familiars have been plotting against them this whole time. But then, there’s no need to drag Lindir’s gentle pudu into suspicion. Elrond knows his own animal can be troublesome enough. He sometimes wonders if that’s the hazard of Peredhel blood—a split soul that can’t make up its own mind. 

All he can tell his markhor is: “Lindir is an innocent, and he will be treated as such.” He says it like it’s the end of things, but he still can’t shake the distinct impression that the conversation was already over, and he lost. 

A knock sounds on the door before he can start it up again. Dropping the spare pillows into place, Elrond heads there. When he opens the door, it’s no surprise to find Lindir on the other side, looking just as beautiful as always, still in the day’s robes but with a small satchel of fabric held at his side. He bends swiftly into a bow, needlessly formal, and the pudu bends one leg forward and kneels similarly at his side. Elrond waits for them to rise, then steps aside and gestures in, announcing, “Please, come in.”

Lindir does so, blushing softly and visibly fighting to hide a smile. His handsome face, though diplomatic in the important places, hasn’t yet learned to hide what Elrond’s has, and for that, Elrond is often grateful. Lindir only takes a few steps in before he notices the couch, half made up, and then he moves swiftly towards it, fussing, “Oh, my lord, you should not have—that is, I will finish making it. And I really must be the one to stay on it; I simply could not take your bed—”

“Lindir,” Elrond starts, voice softly admonishing, too fond to be exasperated.

But Lindir, for all his usual agreeability, protests, “No, my lord, please—I really cannot let you sleep there.”

“And yet I cannot allow you there either,” Elrond counters, and when Lindir looks back with an open mouth, Elrond lifts his hand and adds, “and I am your lord, so you will obey.”

That closes Lindir’s mouth instantly. But instead he bites his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth, likely subconsciously and horribly delectable. He looks so desperately worried that Elrond almost breaks and agrees to his terms, but Elrond is strong and steels over.

And the markhor shatters it all by butting in: “The wisest course of action, it would seem, would be to simply share the bed.”

Elrond turns to shoot his familiar a restrained glare. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does to find Lindir’s pudu already at its side, looking quite tiny by comparison, but respectfully quiet. Elrond instantly revaluates his decision to relieve that pudu from suspicion. They might very well be in cahoots after all. 

Lindir looks quite unaware of that, because the mere suggestion has him visibly antsy again, and now he’s looking submissively down at his feet. Elrond doesn’t know what to say. 

The pudu whispers, more to the markhor than Elrond, “Might I see where you stay?”

“Of course,” the markhor answers, like it was to be expected, and then Elrond hears him totter up to his hooves, and the pair of them weave right between Elrond and Lindir, off into the adjacent room, equally as large but devoid of furniture, save for the throw of rugs and pillows the markhor likes to rest in. The pudu will likely stay there tonight, and the fabric curtain that acts as a doorway between both chambers falls shut behind them. 

Elrond and Lindir are left alone. Lindir murmurs forlornly, “Even my familiar is intruding on your space.” 

“Not intruding,” Elrond remarks, his eyes on the still swinging doorway. “I have the distinct feeling that my markhor has wished this for some time.”

Lindir startles, as though the thought never occurred to him that Elrond’s familiar might notice his at all. Elrond’s been around long enough to know otherwise, and a part of him does take heart from the fact that Lindir’s familiar— _a part of Lindir_ —seems to have more courage and self-worth. Lindir deserves more of both. 

Lindir doesn’t seem to have any answer, and Elrond finds himself sighing into the silence. His familiar’s words weigh heavy on him, and looking at Lindir now, at how truly _lovely_ he is, it’s hard to see how sleeping half a room away will make any difference. Elrond’s feelings will be the same regardless, and it will still be wrong of him.

Finally, he admits, “The bed is wide. ...Perhaps, if you would not be too uncomfortable...”

“I would not,” Lindir quickly insists, before blushing thicker and continuing, “only... I really am not worthy to share your bed...”

Elrond can’t help the sad smile that brings him. And it makes him think: “Perhaps this is for the best, then. I will hope that if you rest next to a lord, you will realize that you are equal to one.”

Shaking his head so furiously that the tiny braids on either side of his face clatter against his cheeks, Lindir insists, “I am not.” 

And Elrond says again, “You are, and I am lord, so you will at least _try_ to accept it.” He does hate to invoke his power over anyone. Especially his sweet attendant. And twice in one night. But he knows how painfully Lindir will fight him otherwise, and this, at least, forces Lindir to swallow his self-deprecation. And maybe, on some small level, it will force him to truly think about it. Elrond hopes for that.

Lindir opens his mouth and says nothing once, then twice, then simply asks, “Where might I change into my... ah... under-robes...?”

Elrond gestures towards the washroom. Again, he must hide his emotion: his interest in the everyday question. That hadn’t even occurred to him—seeing Lindir in less. And now it floods him, and he knows he’s opened the door for far more trouble than he bargained for.

But there’s nothing for it now. Lindir nods and gathers up his satchel, following the gesture. 

Elrond sighs anew and hopes his familiar’s happy.


	3. Cherry

Despite the open balcony, draped only in thin gossamer curtains, Lord Elrond’s chambers are pleasantly warm. The large bed is exceedingly comfortable, wickedly soft and wholly luxurious, the pillow beneath Lindir’s head absolutely divine. The silken sheet and thick duvet that blanket his body are pure paradise. In any other situation, the setting would have lured Lindir happily to sleep within only a few scant seconds. 

But this situation has his beloved lord lying right beside him, and Lindir finds himself staring at the ceiling, equal parts overjoyed and terrified. They’re half an arm’s length apart, but he can _feel_ the heat of Elrond’s body, the dip in the mattress that rolls towards it, and the faint touches of _Elrond_ all about the room. Lindir’s only been in these chambers on a few brief occasions, always in the throes of duty, hurriedly coming and going with one task or another on his mind. Now he ogles it all through the moonlit darkness, even though the thing he truly wants to watch is right by his side. 

He wishes his pudu were around. On sleepless nights, it’s a comfort to roll towards the edge of the mattress and peer down at the soft bundle of fur that likes to rest there. He could stroke his familiar’s rich pelt, and he’d be told, in return, that sleep is coming, and all will be well. He knows that knowledge must live inside him for his pudu to voice it aloud. But he can never quite seem to summon it on his own. He has no such comfort now. He’s all alone.

Well, not alone. Not really. He rolls onto his side without meaning to, the wrong way, facing Elrond’s broad back and the dark hair that spills down it, partially laid out across the blanket between them. Staring at Elrond stirs a new plethora of _want_ that Lindir tries to squelch, but his mind won’t listen. His body shuffles closer. Elrond’s close enough to touch, to _hold_.

Elrond stirs, and Lindir freezes, petrified.

The blankets tug. Elrond rolls over onto his back. His arms are still beneath the duvet, while Lindir’s are curled up against his chest. Elrond’s face lulls to the side, his silver eyes half-open and sliding straight for Lindir. Lindir knows he should shut his, should at least pretend to sleep, but he isn’t quick enough. He’s caught in Elrond’s stare, and his cheeks heat for it.

Elrond murmurs quietly, “Do you find it difficult to sleep, as well?”

Lindir nods. He wants to explain. It isn’t Elrond’s fault, and there’s nothing wrong with Elrond’s quarters, it’s just—“It is only that I... I have never shared a bed with such a handsome elf before...” And then he hurriedly slams his mouth shut, horrified and ashamed with himself. One hand flies up to cover his lips, as though that will keep them from uttering more foolishness. 

With no judgment on his ageless face, Elrond smiles kindly. He’s always so unwaveringly _kind_ , despite all of Lindir’s stumbling. Elrond softly returns, “Nor I, in truth.” It takes Lindir a second to understand that. Then his eyes widen while his heart constricts. “But I did not mean to prey on you. I will behave myself.” Elrond rolls his head away, facing the ceiling and closing his eyes, while Lindir reels. 

He lowers his hand enough to insist, “My lord, you could never be predatory.”

“No, I am not infallible.” Before Lindir can protest, Elrond adds, “I have my temptations.” And his eyes flutter open again, falling back to Lindir, who’s sure he misunderstood.

His lord can’t really be saying that _he’s_ any temptation. But Elrond patiently regards him with no other explanation. 

“I... surely you cannot mean _me_...”

Elrond seems to study his face, deciding on an answer, and Lindir can see the struggle but doesn’t know what over. Finally, Elrond asks, “You do not wish to think so, or you do not think yourself capable of entrancing someone?”

“Entrancing anyone.... But... my lord, who is so beautiful and wise, in particular...”

If Lindir didn’t know better, he’d say Elrond’s cheeks were staining darker, but it’s difficult to tell in the low light, and he’s sure he’s wrong. He’s sure he’s wrong about this whole conversation; he’s somehow drastically miscalculated and overstepped. He has half a mind to run for the door, even in his frail nightgown, but Elrond’s magnetism holds him fast. Elrond tells him bluntly, “You tempt me, Lindir. Very much so. And I say this neither to humour nor frighten you, but simply because it is true.”

Lindir’s... speechless. The sincerity is thick in Elrond’s voice, and Lindir’s always trusted him, but it’s hard to hear—hard to believe. Lindir fidgets in place, his body crawling because words have failed him. 

Mainly just to ground himself in reality again, he reaches out. He lays his hand tentatively on Elrond’s shoulder, the touch feather-light, barely there, ready to retract at any time. Elrond glances down at it and whispers slowly, “I merely wished to disabuse you of the notion that you were beneath notice, and I above it... but I am too old for you, Lindir. ...And I will not abuse my station...”

“You never would,” Lindir manages. But his hand doesn’t fall away. He keeps his grip because he needs to. Elrond looks at it, then looks at him. Lindir’s sure his desperation is traitorously plain. He must be radiating it. Elrond stares right into it, and it’s like Lindir can _see_ him breaking.

He moves a little closer, his face hovering just before Lindir’s. He presses a chaste kiss to Lindir’s forehead, and Lindir’s lashes flutter closed, his body going rigid with so much desire that he can barely stand it. He tilts up without thinking, and then he feels the ghost of Elrond’s lips, and then they’re kissing. 

Lindir’s entire body is wracked with pleasure. He surges forward, unable to hold back, and presses against Elrond’s soft lips. A hand snakes across his cheek, back into his hair, long fingers tangling in the messy strands at first as though to hold him back, then to hold him close. When Elrond first pulls away, Lindir dives after him, chasing another. It happens. Another kiss, and then a fourth, and Lindir lets out a shameless moan, his body creepy closer beneath the sheets to seek Elrond’s sturdy form.

He finds it, and he nudges against Elrond’s side, his thighs quivering and parting—one drapes over Elrond’s leg, tugging at the slender nightgown he wears. Elrond’s robes are similar, but they bear a sash in the middle that Lindir longs to claw at. He leaves it. His arms nudge Elrond’s shoulder, but he doesn’t touch any further. Instead, he shivers into every kiss, drowning in every blissful touch that Elrond bestows upon him. The next time Elrond parts them, Lindir allows it, because he needs to pant for air. 

Then suddenly Elrond is on him again, hammering against him with enough force that he falls back, and Elrond rolls right on top of him. Lindir’s turned onto his back, his head cushioned in the pillows while Elrond bears down over him and tugs the blankets back into place. Lindir’s head is spinning, dizzily trying to take in and map and memorize every last sensation—Elrond’s knees pressed to either side of his hips, Elrond’s robes draping down across him, the sash thrown across his middle, one of Elrond’s elbows by his shoulder and the other bent, hand still in his hair. As Elrond leans down to connect their mouths again, Lindir finally uncurls his arms and lets them wrap around Elrond’s shoulders. He lets his palms smooth across Elrond’s back, his fingers wrinkling the robe. Elrond’s hair tickles his cheek, spilling all around him, mixing with his own. He half fears he’s fallen into fantasy, lost himself in another heady daydream, but everything’s so vivid and _real_. When Elrond fills him with tongue, Lindir whimpers and bucks up, lost in eager ecstasy. 

On the next break between them, Lindir’s words return, and he finds himself begging, “ _Please_.” He’s breathless and senseless, but he holds Elrond against him and pleads anyway, “ _Take me_...” Elrond rewards him with a new kiss that stirs a bacchanalia of butterflies inside his stomach.

But Elrond murmurs against him, “I wish to, my Lindir... I have long wished to...” Lindir shudders, disbelieving but delighted. “Yet it would not be right to do so so quickly...”

Usually, Lindir wouldn’t push his lord so, but trapped underneath Elrond’s body, overheating in clinging robes, Lindir whines his protest. “Please, if I am worthy of it, I... I would have it... I have wanted it for as long as I can remember...” Elrond kisses his jaw between his words, forcing his breath to catch and his body to arch up into it; he’s overwhelmed. He turns to catch Elrond’s mouth again, opening wide to take Elrond in. 

Elrond’s angles change, and Lindir realizes that he’s reaching for the nightstand. He doesn’t seem willing to leave Lindir long enough to look properly, but Lindir would have it no other way. He kisses Elrond over and over as Elrond fumbles out, finally retracting, and then Elrond’s lifting up, sitting above Lindir, needing both hands to uncap the tiny bottle that glimmers in the distant starlight. Lindir’s heart races at the idea of what it must be. 

With eyes as heavy-lidded and dilated as Lindir’s surely are, Elrond asks, “Are you sure, my Lindir?”

“Yes,” Lindir breathes, wanting desperately to hear Elrond say that again: _his Lindir_. It switched so easily, so suddenly, but it feels too right to question.

Elrond drizzles a small pool into one palm, then caps the bottle again and sets it aside—over on an unused pillow. He lifts up on his knees, and his dry hand reaches under for the hem of Lindir’s robe, hesitating, but Lindir bucks up again and repeats: “ _Please_.” He’s too enraptured to be embarrassed any longer. Even if his body, soft and useless and nowhere near as toned as elves should be, doesn’t please his lord to look at, he knows he can at least be a warm hole to use, and he would eagerly be that, if it were all he had. But as Elrond rolls up Lindir’s delicate nightgown, his handsome face shows only awe. He eyes Lindir’s creamy thighs, the smooth expanse of his hips, the dip between his legs where his undergarments hold him down. Elrond pauses, breath hitched, as he takes in Lindir’s crotch, and then he pushes higher still, rolling the white material up across Lindir’s chest, exposing his breast. His pink nipples swiftly harden in the open air, and Elrond bends down to kiss one. Lindir cries out before remembering their familiars in the other room, and then he bites his lip and _tries_ to be quiet. It’s made particularly difficult when Elrond licks across to the other one and sucks it into his mouth, rolling the little bud around on his tongue and suckling it gently. Lindir’s hips grind helplessly up into Elrond, who frees Lindir’s nipple with a wet popping sound. It leaves a damp mark that has Lindir shivering. Elrond blows over it, only to lift up again and reach for Lindir’s undergarments. Lindir whines, “Please,” like a broken mantra, and Elrond tugs them down Lindir’s thighs. 

Completely exposed, staring up at Elrond is a surreal experience. Elrond’s always been so composed, so proper, and it’s strange to see the almost feral look that’s come into his eyes. It takes Lindir a few cloudy-headed seconds to realize that Elrond’s gaze is full of _lust_. It fills him with excitement and makes him thrum for _more_.

He whispers, “Elrond,” momentarily forgetting the title, and Elrond seems to come back to him, smiling broadly. Lindir’s heart flutters. 

Then Elrond climbs off of him, sitting aside just long enough to tug the undergarments down and off Lindir’s legs. They’re tossed the way of the phial, and Elrond pats one of Lindir’s thighs, ordering, “Up.” Lindir obeys, bending both back. Elrond sidles right back before them and guides each leg down around his sides, leaving Lindir hiked up in his lap. His wet hand then reaches down between Lindir’s legs, and Lindir spreads them wider, expecting the touch to go low.

It stops, instead, at his cock, and Elrond wraps around it, lightly squeezing the shaft, which chokes another cry out of Lindir. He clamps his hand over his mouth to stop it, and the other trembles at his side, while Elrond slowly strokes him, telling him in a trance-like whisper, “You are so beautiful, my love.” _Love_. The word resonates in Lindir’s mind. He couldn’t be any harder. Just when he thinks he’s going to burst, Elrond’s skilled fingers leave him, sliding, instead, below him.

As one digit rubs languidly between his cheeks, Lindir reaches for the sash at Elrond’s waist. He’s shaking, and he waits for Elrond’s nod, but then he tugs it, and it comes easily loose. Elrond’s robes fall open, parting smoothly about his middle, to show everything from stem to stern. Lindir gasps at the view and hurriedly drinks it in, lost in that while Elrond touches him.

Elrond probes at his hole, and Lindir eyes the chiseled lines of Elrond’s pecs. Elrond presses against the puckered entrance, and Lindir trails down the toned remnants of a six-pack. Elrond pops the first digit inside, and Lindir stares at the dark tufts that house the base of Elrond’s cock, long and thick and flushed deep crimson, just as hard as Lindir’s. He gasps from both sensations. The finger strokes his insides, squirming deeper, and Lindir shuts his eyes, because if he takes both the feeling of Elrond’s finger and the sight of Elrond’s cock, he fears he’ll come too soon. He already wants to. Elrond is so _perfect_ to him.

Elrond sinks down, slowly reaching the knuckle, then curls and pets Lindir’s channel while Lindir writhes and whimpers. Kisses begin to litter his face, reaching down his throat, and Elrond chooses a spot on his neck to suck while the finger slowly withdraws, a second joining it. Lindir can hardly stand it. By the time the third finger’s inside him, he’s groaning again: “E-Elrond, please, _please_...”

Yet he whimpers when they pull out. His channel feels strangely stretched, slick from the oil Elrond carefully coated him in, his aching cock arching up, just short of touching Elrond’s stomach. His knees have lifted high, clinging to Elrond’s sides. Elrond looks back to line them up, Lindir’s eyes darting open to watch. Elrond positions his cock between Lindir’s legs, and then Lindir feels the round tip nudge against his open hole. He waits, taut but ready, until Elrond pushes in.

That first taste is enough. Lindir moans, loud and low, heading tossing back and channel clenching—Elrond hisses, pauses, then starts to push in farther, slow and steady. Lindir yearns for it, _needs it_ , but he can’t do anything more than pant and writhe and wait—he doesn’t have the wherewithal. He tries to focus, to commit every little detail to active memory, but it’s hard to do anything but _feel_. Pleasure ripples through him—the pleasure of being stretched, being filled, feeling _Elrond_ , someone that he’s wanted for so long. Then Elrond reaches a certain spot inside him than makes him see white, and Lindir arches back, gasping, drowning in the moment.

Elrond slowly withdraws, but the pleasure lingers. Elrond pushes forward and fills him anew, swift and sure but still gentle, both hands coming to Lindir’s face, fingers in his hair and a mouth on his again—he opens up to resume their fervent kisses. He has no power to do anything else; he’s trembling too much to be of use, and his hips are stuttering beyond his control, jerking back into each of Elrond’s thrusts. But his mouth still works, and he meets Elrond with it. His arms eventually lift to Elrond’s shoulders back again, latching snuggly on. He holds them together as Elrond rocks into him. He’s given full, incredible thrusts that bring him staggering towards the edge on every blow. It’s _so good_.

On the deepest thrusts, Elrond flattens into him, and he can feel Elrond’s warm skin press down into his. They glue together, Lindir stirring up a thin sheen of sweat, and the weight of Elrond’s body, built as a warrior’s, heats him further. It’s a heat he loves. Feeling Elrond against him, _in_ him, is too much. He tries to hold on, hold back, because he can’t stand the thought of it ending. But he knows he won’t last long.

He savours it as long as he can. One giddy thrust after another, their mouths and hands all over each other, and it becomes too much—but the finish line comes when Elrond’s right hand slips between their bodies to wrap around Lindir’s cock. Two pumps, and Lindir’s gone—he paints both of their stomachs and stifles a cry in Elrond’s mouth. Elrond pumps him through it, kisses him through it, and still rocks into him. A wave of intense dizziness sweeps Lindir off. He loses all sense of weight and feeling, ears buzzing, and he doesn’t realize how hard he’s panting until a few minutes later, when his head’s slowly coming down.

Elrond finishes inside him then, spilling with a muffled moan that he buries in the crux of Lindir’s shoulder. The rush of Elrond’s seed is bliss itself. Lindir deliberately squeezes, wanting to milk it all out and hold onto every last drop, and Elrond seems to appreciate that. He groans and kisses Lindir’s shoulder. Lindir’s awash in bittersweet sensations.

Heavy and boneless, he lies there. Another thrust, and Elrond’s finished. He collapses atop Lindir, catching himself just in time on one arm, and he holds himself just above Lindir’s lungs, their bodies still touching but not crushing. Lindir’s cock is sandwiched between them, leaking and flagging. Neither of them says a word.

For a long moment, they stay like that, locked together with their clothes disheveled and Elrond still inside Lindir’s body. It grows slightly uncomfortable, but Lindir still whines when Elrond does pull out. It drags a sticky trail with him that Lindir can feel leaking slickly down his cheeks. He barely spares a thought to Elrond’s soiled sheets. He stares as Elrond rolls off of him, still tight against him, but now propped up against his side. Lindir searches his clouded eyes, fearing regret, but finds none.

When Elrond’s brow does furrow, all he mutters is, “Strange. ...I do not remember putting the oil there...”

Lindir flushes, because now that he’s recovering from the haze of amazing sex, that placement does seem odd for Elrond’s character—such a thing just right out in the open. 

Elrond concludes for him, looking suddenly exasperated, “My markhor...” 

Lindir thinks on that, then murmurs, “If it makes you feel any better, my pudu practically pushed me here.”

A smile twitches across Elrond’s lips. Lindir finds himself staring at them, still finding it hard to believe that he knows what they feel like, what they taste like. He wants to feel them again, but he’s too spent to think of moving. 

Elrond chuckles, “They have been conspiring to bring us together, I think.”

Lindir opens his mouth to say his pudu would never do such a thing, but that would mean laying the blame entirely on Elrond’s markhor, and besides, Lindir does know that his pudu wants him to be happy. And this is the greatest happiness he’s ever felt. So he only mutters quietly, on the off chance it’s true, “I owe them a debt of gratitude.” As Elrond returns his chaste smile, Lindir thinks to ask, around a deep blush and slight stammer, “Are... are we... ‘together’...?”

“I see no point in resisting now,” Elrond admits, “though I will still endeavor never to use my power over you.”

Lindir never once feared that. Elrond is fair, just, and Lindir implicitly trusts him, wants him, and would if he were only a stable boy and Lindir the one highborn. But in truth, Lindir likes it this way. He’s more a follower than leader, and Elrond is the one he chooses to follow. He can’t seem to stop his smile. Then Elrond adds: “And I hope you know that I mean that in more ways than this—then just you in my bed. I would share with you in other ways, if you would have me.”

Lindir can’t speak again. He just nods and feels a small choke—his eyes feel damp, but he tries not to give in to tears. In a burst of new courage, he latches back onto Elrond, enveloping Elrond’s half-naked body in an intimate embrace. A minute later, still clinging there, Lindir manages to say, “I hope the eastern wing is never fixed.”

Elrond chuckles and holds him.


End file.
